


Mid-Mission Summer Break

by wyntera



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 22:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15447294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: With an afternoon to kill, McCree encourages Hanzo to have a little fun.





	Mid-Mission Summer Break

The untouched wilderness of the Pacific Northwest is beautiful, a sight to behold as Fareeha told them before their mission. Hanzo has never seen it himself, the area not a particular hotbed of work for an assassin or bounty hunter. He would have liked to see it, perhaps after the mission was over. Certainly it would be nice under less stressful circumstances. As it is, all he can see is a blur of green as he sprints through the forest as fast as his legs can carry him.

Missions going awry are not a rarity in this new Overwatch, not when there are so few members with questionable methods and rules of engagement that are more like suggestions. This particular mission would have gone better with four agents but Hanzo and McCree were the only ones available on such short notice. Four agents would have meant at someone would have been watching their backs, someone would have noticed their cover had been blown, someone would have warned them of the dozen armed men surrounding them and forcing them to jump out that second story window.

The sting from broken glass comes a distant third to the burn in his lungs and muscles. His focus is narrowed down to the next obstacle in his path and the sound of McCree crashing through the trees behind him. As long as McCree is still running, Hanzo can push himself farther. As long as McCree keeps going, they aren’t both dead.

They run for what feels like hours but can’t be more than ten minutes when McCree’s steps falter behind Hanzo, the same time he hears a gasped, “Stop, stop, stop!” Hanzo manages to catch himself on a tree trunk to stop his forward momentum and he turns to find McCree gripping another one like a buoy out at sea. The poor cowboy looks to be on the verge of hyperventilation, and Hanzo doesn’t feel much better. “I think--we lost ‘em,” McCree pants, bending down to rest his hands on his knees.

Hanzo raises his own arms up and folds his hands on top of his head to get more oxygen to his lungs. “Are you sure?” Hanzo asks between breaths. 

McCree shakes his head. When he finally pushes his hat up to look at Hanzo, it reveals a face flushed red from exertion. “No one’s--shot at us--in a while.” He sucks in a long breath and fights to control his breathing. “God damn, Shimada, what were you, a cheetah in another life? I ain’t ran that fast in twenty years.”

“You kept up. I thought we’d have to stop well before now.” The racing pulse at the base of McCree’s throat is far too distracting given their current predicament and Hanzo forces himself to look away. “Quiet now, we need to be sure.”

Nodding, McCree takes a knee and they both hunker down. For a few minutes their breathing is still the only thing they can hear, but soon enough the noises of the forest descend around them. The chirping of birds and the buzzing of insects sound loud in the silence. The summer heat is heavy in the air, not the slightest of breezes to move the branches overhead.

“Think we’re good,” McCree murmurs after a bit. He fiddles with the communicator in his ear and then Hanzo hears him in stereo. “Orca, this is McCree. Come in, Orca.”

The response is instant.  _ “McCree this is Pharah--what the hell happened?! Are you okay? Is Shimada with you?” _

“Our position was compromised. He’s with me, we’re uninjured. We’re in the woods, ah, south-southeast of the target. Requesting immediate extraction.”

_ “Negative,”  _ Fareeha replies.  _ “Chances we’ll be intercepted are high. Best to wait until dark. Hold for coordinates.” _

McCree diligently records the location of their rendezvous point and the estimated time of arrival that Fareeha relays, then obediently clicks his communicator off. They are to maintain radio silence unless there’s an emergency, make their way to the rendezvous point, and lay low until nightfall. McCree sighs and looks up at the sun shining bright through the treetops. “Welp, looks like we’ve got some time.”

“How far is the extraction point from here?” Hanzo asks, watching the direction they came from for movement.

“Little over two miles. We can make it in an hour if we hoof it.”

Hanzo nods. “We should go scout the area.”

They set off without another word, eager to put that much more distance between themselves and any pursuers. Now that the immediate danger has passed they’re much more careful with their path. McCree is careful to step only where Hanzo treads and makes effort not to disturb any of the rocks and foliage along the way, even using a stick to break up their footprints when they encounter soft, damp soil.

“Where did you learn that?” Hanzo asks, taking a few quick strides to leap across a wide gulch filled with broken limbs. “I did not think you had many wilderness missions in Blackwatch.”

“It came up more than you’d think,” McCree replies, frowning down at the gulch. “Shit. I’ll have to find a narrow gap.”

Hanzo motions for McCree. “Nonsense. You can make it.”

That gets him a raised eyebrow. “Not all of us are ninjas, Han.”

“I will catch you,” he says, holding out an arm. The statement has both of McCree’s eyebrows shooting for his hairline. “Come on, unless those chaps are too tight for you to jump.”

McCree snorts and backs up, tugging his hat securely onto his head. “If I fall in this ditch I’m taking off these chaps and beating you with them.”

“Less talking, more jumping,” Hanzo answers, forcefully not thinking about McCree stripping out of his chaps.

The running jump that McCree attempts is a lot less graceful than Hanzo’s but he manages to get one foot on the grass across the ditch. Hanzo grabs him by the arm before he can tip backwards and they stumble before finding their feet. Hanzo finds their chests pressed together, McCree’s hand on his waist, and it takes a second too long for him to remember to step away. If McCree is as affected as Hanzo he makes no sign of it, straightening his serape around his shoulders and offering a lopsided smile. “Thanks, darlin’.”

Hanzo gives a curt nod and presses on through the underbrush, the faint jingle of spurs following in his wake.

They make good time and locate the coordinates with relative ease. A clearing in the woods will serve as a pick-up point for the Orca to fly in low, hopefully far enough from the Talon base to not arouse suspicion. A thorough check of the treeline for anyone possibly hiding in wait reveals nothing behind the tree trunks and broken logs. Everything looks untouched and pristine.

“I believe we are safe, for now,” Hanzo says as he and McCree meet on the other side of the clearing. “But we should stay out of sight just in case.”

McCree whips his hat off his head and wipes the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief--a proper handkerchief of red cotton with a white paisley pattern, the sort of thing Hanzo thought was only in old western movies now, why is he not surprised McCree owns one?  “Out of sight and out of this blasted heat. I thought it was supposed to be nice up here this time of year?”

“I believe Mei mentioned a heat wave,” Hanzo admits, tugging at his shirt and feeling it cling uncomfortably to his skin. Their infiltration mission was meant for an air-conditioned facility; an unexpected hike through the woods was never part of the plan. “You do not have water under that serape, do you?”

“As a matter of fact,” McCree says, and with a grin pulls a canteen off his belt behind the loop of his flashbangs. “Maybe if you filled yours with something other than sake every once in a while…”

Hanzo grabs the canteen and takes a healthy gulp, ignoring McCree. The water is warm and tastes metallic from the container, but the wetness on his tongue is more than welcome. He hands it back so McCree can take a drink of his own. “We should ration that.”

“Can-do. Come on, let’s find a shady spot.”

A shady spot ends up being a couple hundred feet away down a gentle slope that leads to a river. They’re picking their way through the rocks and branches trying to find an open area, somewhere suitable to sit and wait, when McCree says, “Hey, is that what I think it is?”

“What?” Hanzo asks, unable to look around McCree’s shoulders. He reaches for his bow.

“It is!” 

“It is what?!”

McCree jogs forward and Hanzo can finally see what caught the cowboy’s attention. A bank of soft dirt and smooth river rocks opens up on their side of the river with a great maple tree growing along the water’s edge. Hanging from one of the large branches is a knotted rope, on the end of which is a rubber tire. “A tire swing!”

“A...tire?” Hanzo asks, baffled. “Made or rubber? They have not made those in years. What is it doing out here?”

“I dunno. Some kids must have strung it up.” McCree looks inside the hollow insides and wrinkles his nose. “Dirty, but nothing a little water can’t fix.” He takes hold of the tire and squeezes, then pushes downward. The rope holds firm. “Still works!”

Hanzo rolls his eyes, turning around in a slow circle to look at the rocky little beach. “I suppose this will do. It will be better than sitting in the weeds collecting ticks-- _ what are you doing?! _ ” He would be embarrassed by the way his voice jumped an octave by the end of that sentence, but he’s too distracted by McCree stripping out of his armor and starting on his button down.

“What’s it look like?” McCree asks, tugging the fabric from his shoulders and dropping the bundled cloth on top of his chestplate.

The black undershirt soon joins the pile, and much to Hanzo’s chagrin McCree starts on the buckles of his belt and chaps. “You cannot possibly be considering getting in that water!”

McCree has the gall to look at him with surprise as the belt falls to the ground. “Why not?”

“It is--it is filthy, for one.” Hanzo crosses his arms, refusing to give any indication how flustered this display is making him. He’s seen McCree in various states of dress in the locker room or changing between missions, but never has the man so blatantly undressed right in front of him. Watching him unbutton those jeans and shimmy them down his thighs is pushing Hanzo right up to the edge of his sanity. Could McCree at least turn around?

“I’m already filthy,” McCree replies with a cocky grin, now down to nothing but the boxer briefs riding low on his hips. His clothing gets pushed to the base of a tree well away from the water, then he turns to inspect the tire swing again, giving it a spin or two around the rope. “Might as well cool down.” 

“There is a difference between sweat and, and, muddy slime,” Hanzo states. “And you have no idea what could be in that water. There could be snakes, or those turtles that can bite off your toes--I have seen them on documentaries, they can break your bones in half. Or there could be some sort of flesh-eating bacteria.” He shudders, gripping his bow tighter.  _ “Leeches!” _

“I think I’ll take my chances.” Grabbing the tire McCree pulls it back toward the trunk of the tree. He hauls himself up to a low branch, the muscles in his arms and back bunching and flexing with the movement. The branch easily takes his weight and he steadies himself before bracing his feet on the tire on either side of the tied rope.

“We are supposed to be laying low,” Hanzo hisses, running out of arguments that this silly man will not listen to. “Do you not think this will draw unwanted attention?”

That has McCree pausing, but only to sigh and level Hanzo with an annoyed look. “Han, we’re well away from the compound. They’re goin’ to be looking for us near the roads, and we’re out in the middle of nowhere. Chances are, none of them have ever even been out this far themselves. If someone does happen on us, they’re never going to believe two Overwatch agents stopped in the middle of being chased to play in a river. But there won’t be anybody, cause there ain’t a soul for miles. Relax.”

And with that, McCree launches himself off the tree, flying through the air and out over the water with a great whooping shout. At the highest point of the swing he lets go of the rope and he seems to almost hang over the water before plummeting down with a resounding splash that booms through the quiet din of the forest. Water ripples out in great dark waves, a pair of birds takes to the air from the trees overhead, and Hanzo feels droplets splatter his face. A moment later McCree’s head emerges from the river, hair plastered to his skull and a great grin on his big dumb face. “Hot damn, that’s fun!”

“You are thirty-eight years old,” Hanzo projects out over the water, because he feels McCree needs reminding. “An adult.”

“And this adult is going to enjoy the rest of the day instead of pouting on the shore like a stick in the mud,” McCree calls back.

Hanzo grits his teeth. He doesn’t stomp over to a fallen log up the hill, but it’s a close thing. Plopping down makes the wood creak underneath him, but he ignores that in favor of thoroughly ignoring McCree and his amused smile.  _ Pouting _ . How ridiculous. He’s a Shimada, and Shimadas do not  _ pout _ .

McCree seems just as content to ignore him right back. The river is fairly wide with a gentle current, and he is careful not to venture too far from the little cove with the tire swing. He floats around, getting used to the water depth, the only things visible over the water his head, shoulders and occasionally his feet.

As time passes Hanzo becomes more and more aware of the lack of breeze. Despite the canopy overhead the shade offers little relief at this time of day. If anything it feels like the heat is trapped in the layer of underbrush, an unusual humidity making the air heavy. The hairs that came loose from his ponytail cling uncomfortably to the sides of his neck. An annoying cloud of gnats moves in that he has to swat away more than once. He has to fight the urge to scratch the minute itches that jump up his body. And through it all McCree swims through the dull water as if he has not a care in the world.

Breathing a harsh sigh, Hanzo closes his eyes. He has more discipline than this. Adopting a relaxed pose, he takes an inward breath before slowly exhaling. Meditation will make the hours slip by faster. He can cast his thoughts elsewhere.

Just as his mind begins to calm and settle, the tree branch creaks once, twice, followed by another resounding splash. Hanzo’s brow furrows and he peeks briefly through his lashes as McCree emerges once more, his back to Hanzo. With a growl he closes his eyes again and giving himself an internal chastisement. He knows better. Ignore all distractions.

Again, after a few minutes there is the sound of wet footsteps, the wood bending under a man’s weight, the rope grating against the bark, then a moment of silence before the thunderclap of splashing water. And then, again, a few minutes later. And again. Hanzo’s fingers grip the fabric of his hakama tighter with each jump. In less time than Hanzo would like, his patience snaps. “Would you keep it down?” he barks, looking to the shore.

This proves to be a mistake. 

Hanzo’s eyes move unbidden to McCree’s frame as he emerges from the water. Broad shoulders, a solid chest, thick thighs all covered in dark damp hair and tanned skin dripping water in rivulets. His hips exposed, his boxer briefs clinging tight to--

Hanzo slams his eyes back closed but the image is burned into his retinas. 

He can hear McCree approach, the drops falling onto the stones at his feet and his heavier-than-normal breathing. “You know, you’d probably be in a better mood if you weren’t up here baking.”

“My mood is fine,” Hanzo states, though even he can hear how clipped and agitated the words are. Not very convincing. “Some of us are just more concerned about our mission than others.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” McCree huffs. “If you thought we were still being followed, you wouldn’t be sittin’ here. You’d be stalkin’ around these woods like a panther and being all ninja-y.”

Against his better judgement, Hanzo cracks open one eye to glare up at McCree. At his face. Nowhere else.  _ “Ninja-y.” _

“So that means you’re just sittin’ up here outta spite, which, don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate as much as the next guy, but seein’ you up here all miserable is kind of ruining the whole lazy-fun-by-the-river experience.”

That deserves both eyes for glaring, and Hanzo actually turning his head to do it. “I do not wish to smell like river rot.”

McCree’s mouth falls open, affronted, but he sniffs his skin just in case. “I smell like the essence of nature, thank you very much.” He settles his hands on his hips, which does nothing but draw Hanzo’s attention down to the thicker happy trail leading into the waist of his boxers. “Since when did you turn into such a Debbie Downer?”

“A what? Who is Debbie?” Hanzo asks, then shakes his head. “What does it matter to you what I do?”

“Because it’s downright depressin’ to watch. It’d do you some good to cut loose every so often,” McCree says. “In some way that doesn’t involve a bottle of booze, that is. Have an adventure, be a kid again. When was the last time you had a little fun?”

Hanzo shuts his eyes again and settles back on his folded legs. “I have plenty of fun, but now is neither the time nor the place. There is nothing fun about jumping in a dirty river on a mission. And I am not foolish enough to do so.”

His words are met with silence, and Hanzo breathes a sigh of relief. It seems that McCree will finally give him some peace and--

“Well, you brought this one on yourself.”

“What--?” Before Hanzo realizes what is happening, strong arm grab him under his arm and the knee of one prosthetic. The world spins and he lands with a thud on McCree’s shoulders, locked in a fireman’s carry. “McCree!”

“Ain’t gonna lie,” McCree says, backing up on the bank. “I’m really gonna enjoy this.”

“Put me down!” Hanzo yells, kicking wildly. The position makes it near impossible to get traction, and while he could break the hold it would involve breaking McCree, either his bones or his neck. When McCree squares up to the water, Hanzo strongly considers the latter. “McCree, I swear, if you dunk me in that water I will--”

“Here we go!” McCree charges toward the water.

_ “McCree!” _

As soon as McCree’s toes touch the water he flings them both forward, chucking Hanzo over his head in the process. The archer topples into the river and goes under, clothes and all. The cool water is a shock to the system and he momentarily goes limp from the sudden soothing temperature change. Then a different kind of shock entirely sets in and he kicks hard for the surface. When he breaches for air he can already hear McCree cackling with glee. Hanzo stares, flabbergasted, hair hanging wet in his face. “You  _ ass!” _

“Oh my God, the noise you made!” McCree laughs, jumping back and away when Hanzo lunges at him.

“I should have broke your neck when I had the chance!” Hanzo snarls. His prosthetic feet find purchase on the muddy riverbed and he launches himself up and out of the water to tackle McCree. The two of them submerge in a tangle of flailing limbs. Even for Hanzo and McCree it becomes hard to keep track of just what happens then, the water too murky to see well and their fight too chaotic. They emerge with Hanzo on McCree’s back, his arms around McCree’s neck in a choke hold that is just this side of tight, too loose to be a real threat.

Much to Hanzo’s consternation, McCree is still laughing despite his lost breath. And what’s worse is somewhere along the way he started laughing, too. The cowboy is a horrible influence. “You had better be glad these communicators and my phone are waterproof, or I would drown you and tell the others you slipped on a rock.”

“If you kill me, you better come up with a better story than that. Give me some dignity,” McCree complains, gripping Hanzo’s forearms to try and get a little more air in his windpipe.

“You slipped on a rock and drowned in an inch of water,” Hanzo adds. “Face down. While taking a piss.” McCree snorts and Hanzo lets him go. The weight of his wet clothes is cumbersome as he wades toward the shore. “You just had to ruin my clothes…”

“If you take them off they’ll dry by nightfall,” comes the reply.

Hanzo feels his face flush at the suggestive tone. When he turns to shoot McCree a look, the other man looks innocent enough. Hanzo knows better. But the notion has merit. “I have little choice. I am not about to sit around soaking wet,” he says, beginning to remove his clothes one soggy item at a time. He is not usually prone to self-consciousness, at least not when it comes to his body. Vanity is one of his lesser flaws. But the weight of McCree’s eyes on his body--and he knows McCree is looking--has him feeling shy in a way he hasn’t felt in years. Sure enough, when he’s down to his underwear he turns to find McCree’s eyes on him, completely unashamed to be caught.

A slow smirk slides into place when he raises his gaze to Hanzo’s. “See? Was that so hard?”

All it takes is that damning little smile for the fire in Hanzo to ignite once again. He hooks his fingers in the elastic of his boxers. “At least my underwear will not be wet when the transport arrives,” he says. With that, he slips them off his hips and they drop to the ground. He can see the flash of shock across McCree’s face before Hanzo leans down to put them in a neat pile with his other clothes. Shameless, he strolls back to the water’s edge.  _ Beat that, cowboy. _

McCree grins, shaking his head and leaving the water, already tugging his boxer briefs down. “Ain’t you just full of surprises,” he says, flinging them just short of their belongings. He grabs the rope of the tire swing and laughs. “Skinny-dippin’ with Hanzo Shimada, dear diary, my wildest dreams have come true.”

That makes Hanzo break, a laugh bubbling out of him. He watches McCree climb the rope and swing out into the water again, the display even more enticing without pesky cloth in the way. It’s a shame when that body gets hidden under the water. When he emerges he shakes his head like a dog, sending hair and droplets flinging every direction. “Well?” he calls. “You gonna just stand there?”

Hanzo grabs the rope and does as McCree did, pulling the tire back to the tree trunk. Climbing up is a little more precarious than it would be clothed, for the obvious reasons, but Hanzo manages. The rope is rough under his fingers. He looks down at McCree in the water, head tilted up and watching. “This is ridiculous, you know.”

McCree holds both arms out wide. “It’s what you love about me.”

Rather than answer, Hanzo kicks off the tree trunk. He swoops down then up again and on the crest lets go of the rope. Tucking his legs in, he hits the water in a perfect cannonball, sending a geyser of water sloshing over McCree. Even he can’t keep the grin from his face when he resurfaces.

“See?” McCree taunts. “Told you.”

Hanzo responds by sending a wave of water splashing his direction. Idiotic cowboy.

They end up playing the better part of the afternoon, gallivanting around the water and making good use of the tire swing. Loath as he is to admit it, Hanzo loves it. His heart feels lighter than it has in ages, the tension seeping from his shoulders, and even though the mission still sits in the back of his mind he can feel his worries fading. And sure, the setting may have a part of it, but Hanzo has a suspicion that it’s not the river that’s making Hanzo feel young again.

The sun hangs low in the sky by the time they leave the water for good, their fingers and toes wrinkled and pruny, hair hanging in tangled locks around their shoulders. Their clothes are almost dry but neither moves to redress, instead reclining in the feathery-soft grass up from the bank. Hanzo braces himself with hands behind him, glancing over at his companion. He has long since gotten used to their nudity, though he does his best not to ogle McCree where he lays stretched out and propped with his elbows behind him.

McCree catches his eye and winks. “See somethin’ you like?”

Maybe if he had asked any other time, Hanzo would have denied it. But he’s riding the high of the day, loose limbed and relaxed. “Yes,” he says, just to see McCree’s cheeks go pink. “Like you were not watching earlier when I was undressing.”

“You did first,” McCree counters.

“You stripped first,” Hanzo argues. 

“Well, in the future, if you feel like stripping first, by all means don’t let me stop you.” Hanzo laughs and McCree rolls up onto an elbow, twisting to face Hanzo with his upper body. “Don’t think I’ve seen you smile this much in all my days, Shimada.”

Hanzo looks out at the river, then over at McCree. “Must be the view.” His eyes trace down McCree’s body in a slow once-over, deliberate.

“You’ll make a man blush.” McCree risks reaching out and covering Hanzo’s hand on the rock with his own. His thumb brushes over the soft skin along the back, up over the bone of Hanzo’s wrist. “The transport will still be a few hours yet.”

Hanzo hums. “Any ideas on what we might do to pass the time?” Hanzo asks, turning his hand over so their fingers can link.

“I think I can come up with something fun,” he replies, Hanzo already leaning down to meet his lips.

When the Orca picks them up later that evening, Fareeha pretends not to see the grass stains on their sunburned skin. Nor does she mention the leaves in their hair. Not that she has the time before the two end up asleep practically sharing a jump seat, tucked in close and wrapped up under McCree’s serape.

She does sniff and wrinkle her nose. They smell awful.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like that and want more, want to check out my art, or just want to chat, come on by my tumblr! You can find me under username wyntera. And if twitter is more your game, come and join me there, just look for @ThreeCatDesigns.


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